Decadal
by Estoma
Summary: "Seventeen days later, he entered the arena, but for now, standing under the crumbling pier with the girl and her plump, smiling lips was the bravest thing he had ever done." Cover image by April.


**Author's note: For Rachel, for the Gift Giving Extravaganza in May. I hope this is Finnick-centric enough for you. Using the prompt 'inure' from Caesar's Palace forum. **

i.

_ Barnacle encrusted pylons rose from the piles of debris. Plastic bottles, faded cans and old shopping bags were swept out of the stormwater drain, and strands of leathery seaweed were gathered by the high tides. It all collected under the pier to rot in the sun among the drying sea-foam. Half buried in the sand, the decaying wing of a far-flying mutton-bird reached pathetically toward the sky it would never again touch. The smell of festering seaweed was rank and thick. _

_ Among so much decay, two children stood. Ankle-deep in run-off from the gaping storm water pipe, they both ignored the smell. But as the sunlight filtered through the rotting planks of the Old Pier, it leant beauty of a sort. Shafts of gold arrowed down to bring out the fiery highlight in the boy's hair and made a bright halo for the girl. Their hands were linked, a forgotten game of church and steeple in an age when the church was only a distant story. _

_ Finnick Odair was fourteen years, seven months and nine days old when he shared his first kiss with Tilly Briggs. Lips pressed together, salt-dry, he met hers and painted his cheeks flushed-red. She was the one who parted her lips and put his hands on her back. Seventeen days later, he entered the arena, but for now, standing under the crumbling pier with the girl and her plump, smiling lips was the bravest things he had ever done. _

ii.

Her tongue's forked and slimy like an eel, but Finnick kisses her anyway, because what can he say to a woman who booked him online the second her husband left for a business trip to District 3?

iii.

_Swirling between the tall buildings, snatching at the banners, the wind picked up stinging granules of sand and whipped around Damash Square. No playful easterly, or the gentle western winds, it was Notus, straight from the southern deserts. His breath was like that from the gates of hell. Yet nobody sought shelter for the peacekeepers were mounted at every side street and more lined the aisles that separated the children in the roped off pens. Mothers guided their little children to their leeward sides, hiding their faces against their dresses. Everyone else had to narrow their eyes, bow their heads and wait for the sandstorm to pass. _

_ On stage, the escort's flowing sheer robes did little to protect him from the flaying sand. He crouched behind the head peacekeeper, his hands over his face, and forgot to call for volunteers. But there would be none, this time. _

_ The boy had nobody to shelter behind, so he closed his eyes and raised his face to the wind. Later, his skin would be flayed raw and his escort would have to repair it with layers of makeup before he was fit to step off the train in the Capitol. But for now, he was sure this was the last time he would feel the wind's stinging kiss. _

iv.

It's old Jevon Marr's name that's pulled from the Reaping bowl, and the crowd waits while the escort guides him to the centre of the stage. He looks over their heads in his dark glasses. When there's the call for volunteers, Finnick steps forward like a good little victor.

v.

_Eons ago, in a time of stories and heroes, before Panem was even dreamt of, Gaia's liquid lifeblood ran hot through the valley. For decades, the hills shook and crumbled as lava flowed from their crowns to turn the fertile valley to a molten hell. The power of the earth strove against the mighty waterfall it met at the southern end of the valley. For years, steam and ask filled the air. Then, finally, the water asserted its supremacy and the lava cooled to black rock. To prove its superiority, the river snaked out across the bowl-like valley, sending out fingers to carve channels in the dark stone's heart. _

_ Thousands of yeas later, the gamemakers built a dam far upstream and narrowed the river's course until it thundered into the valley with murderous intent. Now it pitted itself against the twenty-four frail children and thought its task easy. _

_ Finnick Odair took a running leap as the gong sounded, and cleared one of the streams that ran around the base of the plates. His ally from District 2 was not so lucky. Waist deep in water, her foot caught beneath a stone and the sheer force of the current was like a giant hand, pressing on her spine and bending over until her face was underwater. Her hair streamed out like flowing seaweed as Finnick watched with bile in his mouth. _

vi.

Finnick pulls himself onto the sand, glistening wet and deadly. He doesn't look behind him where two of the other victors are trying frantically to keep their heads above water.

vii.

_Suspended, golden between the burnt white sky and the black rock, it looked like a second sun. Dapples of gold patterned the rock by Finnick's feet and the trident landed with a dull clang that travelled through the stone and up his spine. He shivered. _

_At first, the boy was more grateful for the gigantic parachute that bore the trident to him. Yards and yards of pure white silk, he tore it to make a bandage for the deep wound on his thigh. His attacker, the surprisingly audacious girl from District 12, might have been swept away with the current, but she left behind a painful reminder. Not until he stopped the bleeding did he pick up the trident. It was so light, he could have thrown it like a javelin. But instead, he held tight to the leather grip and levered himself to his feet. Clanging on the rock at every other stop, he used the trident as a golden crutch. _

viii.

His tridents are lined up and waiting besides the spears favoured by Brutus and a garrotte similar to the one Cashmere used to win her games. Soon, they will be in use again, and friends will watch friends churn the sand red.

ix.

_The black volcanic rock was bare but for the streams, the burnt and blistered children, and the creeping vines. Some relation of the native fig, the vines did not bear fruit, but instead grew thorns, backwards facing hooks nearly an inch long. Audaciously, they buried their roots in the cracks of the rock and clung tightly to life. They dangled their thin, fibrous leaves over the lips of the stream. _

_ Finnick's hands were hardened enough that the spines did not catch at his flesh. He tore them from the rocks and piled them by the stream and slowly, a net grew under his hands. He used it like some ancient Retiarius, trapping his last opponent and dragging the spines deeply under her skin. Joints distorted and blood flowed darkly over the rocks, but the girl's scream was carried away with the current. Finnick's arm trembled, and he nearly left her to bleed to death, but he ended the 65__th__ games with his trident buried past the tines in her guts. _

_ In the Capitol, they mistook his grimace for a smile of feral pleasure. He still wore it as the electric current on the hovercraft's ladder froze his muscles in place._

x.

The games end in a headlong rush through the darkened jungle. He's still frozen to the ladder of the hovercraft, his face fixed in an exhausted smile, when Plutarch tells him that Annie was taken by the Capitol. Inside, he shatters.


End file.
